Black Starlight
by Limbairedhiel
Summary: Rumor spreads in Middle-Earth that Sauron has a daughter working as his right hand. Her next secret mission: end Elendil's line. When she appears undercover as a refugee fire-elf princess and swears herself to the Fellowship, stealing hearts and working in the shadows, she finds her loyalties and values tested in a way she never anticipated. Is there ever a clear right or wrong?
1. Chapter 1

_Sorry this chapter is so short. It's more of a prologue than an actual chapter. I'm in school right now, so unfortunately my updates may be rather far-between. I would love to have your opinions and suggestions, so be sure to drop a review! I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

_Chapter I: A Dark Princess_

The only noticeable light in the room came from the black, oily torches in the corners. The walls of cold, black stone seemed to suck the light from the nearby Mount Doom, leaving an ominous sort of dim in this tower chamber. The acrid stench of orcs and goblins wafted through the long, narrow window. Approaching the single table in the center of the chamber, the slender, black-haired beauty could hear a flaming roar seeping through the ceiling. Only _her_ heart was unmoved by the terror normally caused by the massive Eye.

Kneeling before the table, she placed her hand on the dormant glass sphere and closed her eyes. The sphere at once flashed, filling the shadowy room with a piercing red light. "_Shakhbûrz,_" she slithered, "_lab-deznush._" The _palantír _replied in the same hissing speech, too foul to be uttered here. "_Good,_" it said, "_I have a weighty task for you._"

"Speak it, master, and it shall be done."

The flaming eye considered for a moment. "_My enemy,_" it hissed, "_Isíldur, has an heir. My greatest wish is to have revenge on this haughty son of Men. Find this heir, and extinguish the line of Kings."_

The dark maiden bowed her head. "As you wish, _Father._"

* * *

Mordollwen adjusted her circlet crown beneath her concealing cowl. The crown, a twist of mithril vines converging in an eye-shaped socket at the center of her forehead, was adorned with only one jewel: a blazing ruby eye with a narrow pupil of black diamond, the insignia of her father, Sauron. The menacing gem struck fear into her victims—delicious fear. She was armed to the teeth; two curved swords and a quiver of poisoned arrows across her back, a recurve bow with serrated spear-heads at either end, a belt of hunting knives and a belt of spiral glaives criss-crossed over her chest, her hip-belt outfitted with two medium travel-pouches, smoke pellets, and needle-point darts filled with poison or tranquilizer, and daggers strapped to her legs, hidden in her high boots. A full black cloak hid her slender form.

Every orc and Man she passed on her way to the mountain pass bowed to their princess—rather, they cowered in fear both reverent and physical. Her loyal black steed awaited her at the pass. He smelled her excitement as she mounted him, and began to prance in place.

"Come, Morghash," she murmured to her horse. "We have a king to meet."

* * *

_**Author's Notes: **_I used Black Speech, so here are the translations:

"Shakhbûrz" = "dark lord"

"lab-deznush" = "your offspring"

Mordollwen (Elvish, for lack of Black Speech version) = "dark as night"

Morghash = "black fire"

I am unsure when I will be able to upload the next chapter, but I believe they will be longer. Again, be sure to leave your comments, and thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

_Busy week at school, grandparents came from out of town…crazy week for me. Sorry this took so long. It is a longer chapter, so I hope that makes up for my delay. Thanks so much for your patience; it means a lot to me! As usual, don't forget to comment, and I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

_Chapter 2: Rumors_

"How much farther?" Pippin yawned. "My feet ache, and I'm tired. Can't we stop?" Though only Pippin voiced his discomfort, none of the Hobbits could deny being exhausted. They'd left the Old Forest two days ago, and today had left before the sun rose, and traveled all day long, stopping only for their frequent meals. Now as the sun sank drowsily behind the trees, they could hardly take one step more.

"All right," Frodo replied, "let's camp away from the road."

They found a little wooded dimple in the earth several yards from the darkening road, far enough—Frodo hoped—to avoid the strong noses of the Black Riders. Merry and Pippin dropped their packs carelessly and collapsed in a melodramatic heap of sighs and grumbles. Sam kept a wary eye on the road as the Hobbits settled down.

"Come on, Sam! Come and eat; you're making me nervous, watching like that." Merry waved a hand at his friend and dug into a loaf of bread. At a gentle word from his master, Sam finally joined the group. The darkness made them all uneasy, especially since their last near-encounter with one of those foul Black Riders. Frodo remembered the incident as though it were yesterday; the chill in the air, the intensity of the silence, broken only by the blood-chilling sound of sniffing…sniffing for Frodo, for the Ring…

"Mr. Frodo?" Frodo suddenly wobbled side to side. "Mr. Frodo, you're doing it again."

Frodo glanced at the firm hand on his shoulder and followed Sam's eyes to his own hands. There was the accursed circle of gold, a hair's breadth from his finger. He quickly stuffed it into his pocket. Sam looked sympathetically into his friend's bloodshot eyes.

"Get some rest, Mr. Frodo. I'll take the first watch."

With a shiver, Frodo lifted his head. He'd fallen asleep again. Dear old Sam decided not to wake Frodo for his watch, and received a scolding from the latter when his nightmare woke him. Now he felt guilty. And cold. It wasn't this chilly earlier, was it?

Frodo's heart skipped a beat. No, it _wasn't _this chilly. Neither was it this quiet. Or dark.

The sound of horse-hooves in the grass made Frodo's face pale. His heart thundered so violently he was sure the Rider could hear it. The chill pressed closer, suffocating him. He ducked into the pit and held his breath, waiting, listening. There were two horses. No, three. His fingers wandered to the ring in his pocket, stroking it, feeling its energy. His eyes darted to the road, and his heart froze again.

Three silhouettes stood black against the moon.

Frodo found himself standing, staring at the riders. One turned to look at him. The moonlight caught a red gem hidden in the hood, piercing his eye with a shard of hypnotic red light. Time blurred almost to a stop; Frodo felt his thoughts turn hazy and his energy seep through his skin. The red gleam came closer…_closer…_

And the Rider turned and rode off.

Frodo sighed as his knees gave way. The Riders were gone. They hadn't seen him—they really hadn't. Still, it was too close. They needed to leave as soon as possible—those Riders might return at any point that night. Any minute…they could be…right…around the corner…

Frodo's head dropped as sleep consumed him.

* * *

"Oh, _finally!_" Pippin sighed as the troupe approached a forbidding-looking wooden gate. "I'm soaked to the skin. I sure hope Gandalf reserved a room for us at that Prancing Pony place."

Frodo pushed worried thoughts of his dear wizard friend from his mind as he pounded on the gate. A small panel instantly slid open to reveal a sour-looking old man.

"What do you want?" Frodo stated that they came to meet someone. The man looked closer. "Hobbits. _Four _Hobbits. And from the Shire, by your talk." With some further chatter about having to be careful, as there were strange riders about, he let the group slip through the door. The village of Bree was a rather flimsy one, though stubbornly resilient. The grey buildings were weathered and quiet, and the road was unpaved dirt—mud now, on account of the vicious rain. Light splayed across the mud-puddles from an open door through which also came sounds of drunken revelry. The four made their way to the inn, where Frodo, or "Mr. Underhill," asked the innkeeper about Gandalf, and his three companions found a table. Frodo returned looking troubled, needing to exchange no words. Merry soon rose to get a drink, successfully arousing jealousy in his cousin at the fair pint-sized mug in his hand. Pippin rose in a hurry to secure a pint for himself, and as Sam chided him for his ale consumption, his eyes fell upon a hooded newcomer. "Mr. Frodo," Sam whispered nervously. Frodo's eyes shifted to the figure, and his stomach suddenly turned a knot for no good reason. Sam's wary attention returned to the other hooded lurker who had been watching them since their arrival. "I don't like this," he muttered. "What with that fellow watchin' us and the other fellow sallyin' on in here decked out with knives and what not, I've got a feeling something bad's going to happen." Frodo said nothing. He didn't like it either, but he wasn't sure why exactly.

Mordollwen glanced sidelong at the drunk beside her. "So I sez ta thish-yer ruffian, I sez…_boy_, you ain't seen _nuthin'_ yet!" The man's eyes lit up with animation as he swung his fists, reenacting some brawl or another. Drunken idiot. Where _is _that innkeeper?

As if on cue, Barliman Butterbur returned from a table of small folk, a troubled look on his face. Noticing Mordollwen, he muttered under his breath; "…all these mysterious travelin' folk gonna scare away my boarders." He approached her. "Can I get you something, s…miss…?" He raised an eyebrow at her shadowed face. She looked up at him, and he blushed. "Yes, as a matter of fact, you can." Her voice was smooth and feminine, but had enough lead and poison you could almost taste it. Barliman shuttered. "I seek information of a King," she continued quietly, leaning on the counter; "he would be nearly ninety years old by now. The heir of Isíldur…Aragorn, I believe?" Barliman nodded. "Nobody knows much about him," he said, "but I've heard tell that he died when he was just a babe. Killed in some raid or another. Some folks say, though"—here he leaned closer to her—"that he's still alive. Taken to the Elves as a child and raised there…oh, where was it? Something with an R, I think…"

"Rivendell?" The name was acrid on her tongue.

"That sounds about right." He gripped a rag and shoved his fist into a mug. "Not sure what's happened to him since then, but if I were really curious, I'd want to go and ask the Elves about him." _Rivendell,_ Mordollwen thought, _is__ not that where..._ "Oh, and while we're at rumors…" irritated at her thoughts being interrupted, she turned back to Barliman with a mild glare. He looked down. "I was just goin' to say that word on the street is there's Black Riders about, roamin' like a guard troupe or somethin'…and that their captain is the princess of the Black Lands herself. That's what I was tellin' those Hobbits just now." She had to contain her surprise. She was famous? Infamous, even? "How does anybody know of there being a princess of Mordor?"

"Well," his eyes gleamed like a child's who is sharing secrets; "someone said that as they was comin' in, they saw a Black Rider a little smaller than the others, and it had a silver crown with a ruby eye in it. Sounds awful suspicious to me."

"Indeed."

"…Frodo Baggins! My second cousin once removed on his mother's side!" One of the little men broadcasted to the room, very pleased with himself. Eyes wide, Mordollwen turned to the other Halfling who had risen and come rushing to his loud-mouthed cousin. Whispers arose in her memory.

_Shire. Baggins._

* * *

**_Author's Notes:_**

Uh-oh! Looks bad for Frodo! Wonder what Strider will do? *wink wink* stay tuned for chapter the next one!

Yes, I know my writing is a little too dramatic. I'm working on it. See, it's so difficult for me to be descriptive without being overdescriptive. Any tips?


	3. Chapter 3

_I'm not dead yet! Although, I **am** terribly ashamed of myself. I cannot begin to express how grateful I am to all of you for your encouraging comments and immense patience with me. I have been incredibly busy with school and home, but I still feel awful for vanishing so long. I am TRULY sorry, thank you SO much for your patience, and I hope you enjoy my rather short chapter. I promise #4 will come as soon as I am capable of uploading it-I'll spend all of my free time on it._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**_Chapter 3—Things That Go Bump in the Night_**

Frodo stared at the Ring as it flew into the air and began to fall. He reached for it, his hand open and extended to catch it. The commotion grew around him at the excitement.

The Ring slipped onto his finger.

Suddenly, everything around him went dark and hazy. The clamor faded to a murmur, the people all blurry and hardly perceptible. All, that is, except for one. Frodo stared in horror at the pallid, ghostly figure before him which stood out with growing clarity. Grayish mist seemed to pour off of the feminine form and surround him, giving him the feeling of floating on a cloud. The figure stood pale and tall like an elf, bright against the night-hued surroundings, but its eyes—Frodo shuddered—its eyes were glowing embers, an ominous backdrop to the third eye in its forehead. This eye was more a living flame, burning brighter, blinding him—unnatural. A horrifyingly unnatural flaming eye. And it was coming closer.

Frodo stumbled back and turned, trying desperately to escape that eye. He could not see where he was going…if he was going anywhere. He glanced behind him. The figure was _following_ him! Didn't anybody else see it? He frantically crawled through what he assumed was a row of tables and stumbled up some steps, the fiery eye hardly two yards away. Grasping the ring, he pulled sharply, alarmed at how firmly stuck it was, until finally it slipped from his finger. Definition and shape returned to his surroundings.

A gloved hand seized his wrist.

"_Glôb!"_ A hissing voice tickled his ear. He turned to find himself looking into an eye-shaped ruby that seemed to glow. His heart froze and he stopped breathing.

"_Lat gimbatnazg," _it continued, "_lat snaga búrzum u ghash."_

Frodo saw fangs as the voice hissed at him; fangs that glinted in the firelight and made him shudder. The cloaked figure—another Ranger, he assumed—yanked him to his feet and began to lead him away.

They did not go far.

Another cloaked figure swung around the corner and seized Frodo's captor by the shoulder. The fanged Ranger seemed unsurprised as he rotated his arm backward, grasped the other's shoulder, and twisted his arm to throw him to the floor. The other man—Strider, Frodo realized—quickly recovered and thrust Fangs against the wall, his right arm braced against the other's throat, his aching left arm poised above his sword. Fangs hissed and tightened his grip on Frodo's wrist. Frodo winced.

"What are you doing with the Halfling?" Strider whispered pointedly at Fangs.

_I would rejoice to set you ablaze,_ Mordollwen thought. "What do _you_ want with him?" she retorted.

The man's visage remained cold. "I am no stranger to Little Folk and their ways. They are quiet and peaceful. When I see them threatened by ruffians larger and stronger, I defend them."

"Out of pity? Pity is a weakness. Who cursed you thus?"

"Myself alone," he replied patiently. "I insist to know what interest you have in—_Mr. Underhill._"

By the way this man gazed calmly, yet fiercely, into Mordollwen's face, she assumed her chameleon-ruse had not fallen and exposed her midnight skin. She must still have appeared a bronze-skinned human. He also seemed oblivious of her ruby eye, which suggested he was innocent of the Ring's influence or that of its Master. She could still lie—perhaps killing him would be unnecessary. Releasing Frodo's wrist, she impatiently yanked the man's arm from her throat and crossed her arms over her chest. The Halfling massaged his bruised wrist, looking troubled. When he dared a glance at her face, she glared coldly, and his gaze dropped like a stone. _How much can he see? _She wondered silently. _How much does the little thief know about me?_ Turning her eyes to the man, she begrudgingly spoke.

"Your little friend has a remarkable trick up his sleeve. You appear to be a Ranger yourself—surely you are not blind to the advantages of totally vanishing. His convenient travel size gives him greater potential usefulness." She looked down at the little man, feigning a look of envious longing. "We could strike a bargain…"

"He is not mine to give, and you may not take him anyway," the man interrupted. "Please pardon my curtness, but I have an appointment to keep." He also looked at the Halfling. The latter squirmed uneasily at the observance and chatter about him.

"Who are you, anyhow?" Mordollwen demanded of the Ranger.

"Strider," he spoke tersely. "Listen well…"

"Sïlmorna," she answered, remembering the alias given her by her father should she encounter so-called Free Folk.

"Listen well, Sïlmorna. The Halfling will soon be relieved of his 'talent,' so shadowing us will do you no good. Trouble hunts him, and if you follow, it will hunt you as well. Forget this night and be on your way. Here;" he fished through a battered travel sack at his hip, took her hand, and placed a handful of silver coins in it. "Consider that a token of my apology at depriving you of the Hobbit. You should leave this town as soon as possible, or else find somewhere safe to hide when trouble comes." With that, he took the Hobbit by the shoulder and led him toward a room.

Footsteps alerted Mordollwen to other Little Folk approaching rapidly. Dropping her false coloring, she retreated into a shadow and vanished entirely from sight. Three other Halflings, one of which she recognized as the Ring-thief's "second cousin once removed," dashed after Strider, armed with a chair and candelabra. Mordollwen followed silently.

* * *

_~The Ring-bearer is in the town. He is guarded by a Ranger who seems cognizant of the Halfling's treasure. The Prancing Pony Inn. They are cornered, but alert.~_

_The wraith shrieked gleefully. "Her Highness has them cornered! Let us reclaim what was stolen!" His followers cheered and spurred their horses forward._

_~We heard the Ring's call. We are coming,~ the wraith replied telepathically to his princess. The four Nazgûl seemed to fly like spirits of the earth's most harrowing nightmares; silent horrors, shadows of death._

_Bree-town would have nightmares tonight._

* * *

The call of the Nazgûl shattered the stillness of midnight, filling every crevice and corner, piercing the hearts and ears of all within hearing. Mordollwen smirked slyly. _You expect trouble,_ she thought toward Strider. _But even you know little of the true threat. _Settling comfortably into her hiding place near the Man's and Hobbits' room, she waited for her troupe.

And waited.

The minutes dragged on like a dying thing stubbornly clinging to life. Mordollwen grew restless and annoyed. _Speaking of threat,_ she grouched, _where are those fools?_ She grasped her telepathic link to her wraith captain and was startled by an influx of excited anticipation. She glanced toward the quiet room beside her. _How did they enter so quietly?_

* * *

_The captain raised his sword, pointed down, over the bed. The other three followed suit. Their prey lay silent and still, totally oblivious of their impending death. The princess said they were alert, did she not? Do they merely pretend?_

_Puzzled, though still eager to kill, the captain nodded. The swords struck in lethal unison like bolts of poison lightning upon metal soldiers' helms. The bundles in the beds jerked with the force, but did not cry out. No pretending—they truly slept._

_The wraiths plunged their swords again and again, perforating the sleeping bundles until they could have been used as sieves. Satisfied, they tore away the covers._

_Pillows._

_The captain shrieked in fury. She said they were here! She said they were alert! Did she forget to mention they devised a ploy? "They are gone!" he seethed to Mordeznush, his princess and commander._

_"__Fool!" she replied. "I said I had them cornered! Did you see me there?"_

_The captain sheepishly bowed his head._

_"__Now, thanks to your ignorance, they know you are here! Leave this town at once, before you cause more trouble!"_

* * *

Strider's voice drifted through the closed door of their room, and Mordollwen leaned slightly closer to listen.

"They are the _Nazgûl—_Ringwraiths," he explained to the halflings. "Neither living nor dead. At all times they feel the presence of the Ring, drawn to the power of the One…"

Mordollwen drew away and cursed silently. _He knows! That thrice-accursed scum knows of the Nazgûl! Damn him! Damn that captain!_ She would simply have to follow the Ranger and his Hobbits tomorrow. He would unknowingly lead her to the next step of her task, anyway.

To Rivendell.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Glôb = _fool

_lat gimbatnazg_ = you found the ring

_lat snaga búrzum u ghash = _you [now] are slave to shadow and flame

Mordeznush = Dark Offspring

Sïlmorna = Dark/Black Starlight (Sindarin)

So...not too bad, I hope?

Sorry it was so short; I wanted to update as soon as possible, so I had to sacrifice some content. It seemed a good place to stop, anyway. If you were wondering, servants of Sauron address her as Mordeznush, but it serves as more of a title. Her name really is Mordollwen, and later you will learn why Sauron did not name her otherwise.

_**TMI Fairy: **_To be honest, I have no clue what Xth Walker is...lol. And I hadn't realized that my character is something of a Mary Sue until you mentioned those "stupid cliches." I'm trying to fix her now-does she seem any better?

_**KnowDrumsGotLife: **_Thank you very much! I'm glad I can make "Tolkien-esque" moments-immense compliment. I'm glad you like it!

_**ElfofMirkwood1379: **_You hush! Your writing is fabulous! As you'll probably notice, though, you and I have very different writing styles...and you know how you tend toward long chapters? Apparently I am the opposite. ㈴2

_**DeLacus: **_Very glad to have you here! I'm fond of the concept myself...I created it at least a year ago. Of course, I held disdain for fanfic back then, so I didnt go anywhere with it. I'm glad you're enjoying it!


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